


Scar

by athena_crikey



Series: Second Sight [5]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Blindness, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Grief, PTSD, Post-Home, Thursdays make everything better, h/c
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-23 23:35:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14343321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Morse returns from Lincolnshire with a bullet in his leg and a heart full of grief; Thursday decides to bring him home.





	1. Chapter 1

The fog lay thick over the icy fields and pale stone streets, cloaking Oxford’s frozen ground. The spectres of sandstone buildings loomed as Thursday navigated through the narrow roads, shadowy spires piercing upwards towards the grey sky. 

The trains were rarely punctual, but as he pulled up outside the train station he saw the rising column of smoke approaching in the distance, heavy engine pounding down towards the tiny station. He turned off the car and stepped out, gloved hand closing the door before wrapping his scarf tight about his neck. He found the damp cold far worse than the dry, its hungry claws piercing bone-deep. The Jag’s engine clicked quietly to itself as it began to cool; he passed it by and headed inside towards the waiting room. 

The train came to a slow halt on the platform and the doors were opened from the inside by passengers streaming out – mostly homing residents, the students having flocked out of the town for the holiday. 

It wasn’t long before Thursday heard the tapping of the stick – heard it before he saw Morse, mixed in with the other passengers. They thinned out entering the station building, and he stepped forward. 

Morse had a roughened look to him, as though he were unravelling around the edges. His thin face was tired and drawn, shadows under his eyes and prominent cheekbones. He hadn’t shaved in days, his jaw covered with pale bristles. As always he was wearing a light car coat, without scarf or gloves. He had a lonely, forgotten feel to him. When he walked, it was with a clear, pained stiffness in his right hip. 

“Morse,” called Thursday, privately dismayed by his appearance. He had been a shadow of himself outside the slate-grey house in Lincolnshire, but few men stood up well in the wake of their father’s death – or a recent shooting. Now, several days later, he looked no better. Looked, if anything, more brittle and grimmer. 

He raised his head at his name, shifting his grip on his cane. “You didn’t have to come,” the lad said, voice rough as though whetted. 

“Told you I’d be here,” replied Thursday, stepping forward and taking his arm. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

  
***

“Hardly anyone came to the funeral,” said Morse in the car as they drove through the darkening streets. Still afternoon, and they were already losing the light. Morse’s bony hands were resting on his knees, surreptitiously near to the warmth of the heater. His suitcase was in the backseat, his cane folded up in his lap. “I can’t help but think it’s a tradition I’ll follow in,” he admitted, softly.

Thursday felt a flare of irritation like the striking of a match. But then, perhaps the lad was entitled to be morbid. “Nonsense. Just in the past year, you’ve made a difference in a host of lives.”

Morse turned towards him, staring with sightless sky-blue eyes. “Two people are dead because of me,” he replied, flatly. 

Thursday tightened his hands on the steering wheel. “You don’t think that’s a little grandiose? Slotting their deaths down as your own work? We may have caught Rosalind Stromming with your help, but she took her life with her own hand. As for Mrs Coke-Norris, she was the one who decided to try to shoot you – not the reverse. No call to go taking credit for things that aren’t your doing, lad.” He slowed to wait at a red light and glanced over at Morse again; the lad looked morose, mouth set in a scowl. “Besides, think of the lives you’ve saved. Mine, for one – more than once.” 

“I never expected so much to start from one phone call,” said Morse softly. 

“You’ve made a difference. That’s to be prized, Morse, not regretted.”

Morse sighed. “I’m not sure I can say the same.”

  
***

It was dark outside by the time they arrived at Morse’s building, street lights pouring down sodium streams to pool on the grey concrete. The Jag’s exhaust was billowing up in large white clouds in the icy air, the heater at full-bore to keep out the chill. Thursday parked at the kerb and shut the engine off, the car falling abruptly silent.

Outside the surrounding buildings were walls of darkness with square windows showing like cut-outs as light shone out. The street was empty of cars and pedestrians, the city quiet around them. The world felt cold and empty, not at all the sort of place to shove an injured man into on his own. 

“I’ll help you up,” Thursday said, laying his hand on the door handle.

“I’m alright.”

“Morse, you look like death warmed over. I’ll help you up.”

That settled, he got out and took Morse’s suitcase out of the back seat. By the time he had the door closed Morse had pulled himself out and was standing on the pavement, back hunched and favouring his right side. “Come along, then.” Thursday took his arm and led him inside. 

The stairs, as it turned out, presented more of a challenge than expected. The first flight was alright, but by the second Morse was breathing hard, more of his weight leaning on Thursday’s arm. By the third his breaths were coming in short, harsh gasps, his shoulder against Thursday’s and his head held low. By the time they got to the top sweat was running down his face, his hands clenched so tight the skin was white. 

They paused on the landing, Thursday waiting for Morse to get his breath back. “What did the doctor say?” asked Thursday.

Morse’s head canted up towards Thursday, then down. He swallowed, the sound audible in the quiet hall. 

“Morse?” pressed Thursday.

“Haven’t seen one yet,” muttered Morse, raising a hand to straighten his collar. 

“You what?” demanded Thursday, incredulously. 

“I was busy, with the funeral, and my family, and… there just wasn’t time. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“You mean to tell me that bullet’s still in your leg? That you’ve been walking around this whole time with just DeBryn’s stitches holding you together?”

Morse bobbed his head once. One hand was gripping Thursday’s sleeve, the other was pressed against his hip. The hip still carrying Millicent Coke-Norris’ bullet. 

Anger flared up in Thursday like a spark landing in a dust-dry field, the blaze sudden and hot. It ran over his skin in the space of a second, scorching into his blood and making it boil. 

“Give me your key,” he ordered, freeing his arm of Morse’s hand and holding his own out.

“Pardon?”

“Your key,” repeated Thursday. Morse fumbled in his pockets and produced it, holding it out. Thursday took it and dragged Morse forward with him, slotting the key into the door when he reached it and stepping in to the tiny flat. “You’re going to see the police surgeon. Now.” He left Morse standing in the doorway and stormed over to the phone, picking it up and dialing. 

“Dr Archibald’s surgery,” answered a pert female voice. 

“DI Thursday. I have a man who needs to see the doctor; he’s got a bullet in his leg needs taking out.”

“Have you been to Casualty, sir?” asked the receptionist.

“No; it was inflicted several days ago. He saw a doctor on scene for a temporary stitch-up.”

“I’m afraid Dr Archibald’s fully booked up this afternoon. I can get him in first thing tomorrow.”

“He needs seeing to now,” protested Thursday sharply.

“You’re welcome to go to Casualty, sir, although for a simple surgery it will likely wait until tomorrow morning regardless,” replied the receptionist, unmoved.

“What time do you open tomorrow?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“We’ll be there,” said Thursday grimly, and hung up. 

By this time Morse had drifted into the flat and was standing by the table, one hand resting on a chair back. He had a pale, pinched look to him, somewhere between pained and irritated. “I can manage by myself,” he said.

“I think the past few days have proven that wrong,” replied Thursday, harshly. “Why don’t you sit down,” he bit back the words: _before you fall down._

“I’m fine,” replied Morse, snappishly. 

“You nearly busted a gut on the way up here; you’re far from fine. You’re lucky you haven’t come down with an infection yet, the way you’ve been flaunting that wound.”

Morse flushed angrily, fingers tightening on the back of the chair. Thursday forced himself to take a breath, tried to douse some of his anger. He forced his voice into a softer, gentler tone. “Look, lad, I know you can look after yourself in the normal course of events. Taking a bullet doesn’t qualify. That needs special care and treatment, so as to stop something minor becoming major. Understand?”

Silence fell for a moment, the tiny flat cold and somehow lonely in its pristine organization; this didn’t feel like a home, it felt like a place to sleep and no more. In one corner a paraffin heater stood, quiet and unlit; there was no other source of heat in the flat. Thursday walked over to it and opened the panel to light the wick, waiting for the flame to catch before closing the heater and rising. When he turned he saw that Morse had pulled out the chair and slumped into it, elbows on the table and fingers woven together to cradle his forehead. When he spoke his voice was low and close to breaking, with exhaustion rather than emotion. 

“We don’t have a car. My parents, that is. After my father lost his license they sold it; needed the money. We live out in the country; paying for a cab to town to see the surgeon, on top of the funeral costs and my travel…” he shook his head without looking up. 

“I would’ve lent you the money, Morse,” said Thursday, dismayed not only at Morse’s words but at the shame in them. “Or taken you into town the day I was there. All you had to do was ask.”

Morse raised his head; in the warm creamy glow of the light filtering down from overhead he looked worn, like old cloth that had seen too much use and was one tug away from tearing. “I’ve never been much of a hand at asking for help,” he said softly. “Independence has always been something to prize.”

“There’s independence, and then there’s pig-headedness,” replied Thursday promptly. “Asking a friend for help, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Morse gave a faint, slow smile. “Then will you give me a ride to the surgeon tomorrow?” he asked.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

  
***

Despite Morse’s setting foot into the world of humility, Thursday didn’t hold out much hope for his having learned a lesson. That night at home, he found himself digging deeper and deeper into a pit of worry, shovel hastened by several fingers of scotch.

“You should have seen him, Win, grey as a spectre and about ready to fall apart. The stairs to his flat nearly did him in; I thought he’d cark it right there on the landing. He’s so goddamn stubborn; won’t back down from a fight, even when he can hardly stand. Even when it’s in his own best interests.” He shook his head. “I’m taking him to the surgeon tomorrow, come hell or high water. But after that…”

That was the crux of it. The idea of leaving Morse alone in his tiny, frigid flat, up and down three flights of stairs at least once a day to fetch in food and necessities… Thursday couldn’t wear it. 

“Why don’t you ask him over?” suggested Win, laying her hand on his knee. “He would have to kip on the sofa, but from what you’ve said of his flat, that would hardly be a hardship. And I’m sure he could use some feeding up; he’s whip-thin.”

“You wouldn’t mind?” asked Thursday, setting his drink down. “He’s not in the happiest of moods.”

“He’s just shy, Fred. And, with his father’s death, probably hurt. I’d hate to think of him all alone and grieving, and in pain on top of it. Besides, the company would do us both good.”

Thursday lent over to give her a kiss. “You’re one in a million, Win.”

  
***

Leaving Win the next morning to give the children the nod that Morse might be stopping by for a few days, Thursday took the bus in to work to pick up the Jag. It was still dark when Thursday arrived at Morse’s building. He let himself in with a key Morse had given him the night before to avoid Morse having to descend the stairs on his own, and made his way up.

Morse answered the door at the first knock, clearly waiting for Thursday’s arrival. He looked slightly better than the day before; his clothes were fresh, his hair damp and his jaw clean. But underneath it all there remained lingering traces of exhaustion and pain: dark bruises beneath his eyes, too-pale skin, a tightness at the corners of his mouth. 

“Good morning,” said Thursday, keeping his tone bright and cheerful. “Ready to go?”

“Yes.”

Together they walked slowly down the stairs, Morse once again starting out independent only to lean more and more heavily on Thursday as the trip progressed. By the bottom he had his arm over Thursday’s shoulder, face pinched with pain, teeth gritted against it. 

“Here we are,” said Thursday softly, and helped him off the final stair. They rested a moment, Morse’s head hung low and his hand fisted tightly in the wool of Thursday’s coat, before leaving the building. 

“I’ve a proposition for you, Morse,” said Thursday, as he got in the car, Morse already settled in the passenger seat. “Win would like some company, and you’d be better off not having to cope with those stairs for a few days. How about coming to stay with us? We’d see you well taken care of, and you could bring your records and anything else you liked. It’d mean kipping on the sofa, but it’s probably nearly as comfortable as that antique mattress you sleep on now.”

Morse’s sightless eyes were wide with surprise, the pain momentarily gone from his face. “I couldn’t impose on you,” he demurred, shaking his head.

“No imposition, lad. We’d be glad to have you. Win can’t stand the idea of you all alone with no one to mother you. Nor can I, truth be told,” he added, more slowly. “You think on it; let me know once you’ve seen the surgeon.”

Morse nodded. “Alright. Thank you.”

  
***

The surgeon’s waiting room was small and stuffy and smelt of cigar smoke and Jeyes’ Fluid. Morse was ushered right in to see Archibald, while Thursday took a seat on a low-slung cloth-upholstered chair. He’d taken a half-day off work, not the easiest thing to do with two cases wrapping up, but it was otherwise a slow time of year and Jakes had volunteered to cover his paperwork – always eager to curry favour.

There was a pile of uninteresting magazines and the day’s _Mail_ on the table, Thursday eventually scooped up the paper and flipped through it. There was a short article about Dr Kern’s funeral; Thursday glanced at it, then turned the page. 

He came at last to the crossword and stopped there.

It had been the crossword that had proven Morse’s bona fides in their first case together, the clues giving the location of the murdered girl. Since then he had only further proven his worth, both as an amateur detective and a friend – solving two further murders, and saving Thursday’s life twice. And, incidentally, taking a knife to the side and a bullet to the leg for his troubles. Not that he’d let either slow him down. 

Thursday shook his head and turned his attention to the crossword.

  
***

It was more than an hour before Morse appeared in the office doorway, looking considerable worse than when he’d entered it. His face was pale and drawn, eyes narrowed and jaw tight. He looked as though a breath of wind might knock him over, fragile as bone china. He was holding onto the doorway, leaning part of his weight on it. Thursday rose and hurried over.

“Morse? You alright?”

“Feel a bit fuzzy,” he said, blinking widely. 

“It’s the morphine,” said the surgeon, coming through the door behind him. “It will wear off in a couple of hours. I’ve given him a prescription for painkillers and antibiotics, the instructions are with the prescription. He’s to have bed rest for the next three days, and to take it easy for a week after that. The better the wound heals now, the less likely it will be to have future ramifications. Understand, Mr Morse?” he repeated heavily. Morse nodded. 

“Alright. Come on, let’s get you home.” Thursday took Morse’s arm and ushered him out. Morse walked slowly and crookedly, head falling on Thursday’s shoulder. 

“You’re coming over,” he told Morse as he packed the limp man into the passenger seat. “No ifs ands or buts.”

“What?” asked Morse, head resting against the back of the seat, eyes closed.

“I’m taking you home,” said Thursday.

  
***

Morse fell asleep two minutes into the car trip. Thursday took them back to Morse’s flat first, pilfering Morse’s keys from his pocket and running up to pack some clothes and brail-printed books in a suitcase. Then it was across town to his own house, Morse snoring lightly beside him.

Thursday let him sleep all the way to the house, pulling the car up opposite the front door and putting on the brake. 

In his sleep, Morse looked peaceful as he never did otherwise. Awake, Morse was in constant motion, his body an extension of his mind which never stopped turning, never for a second paused. He only stilled to prepare for an outburst, as if conserving energy prior to expending it. 

In the half-year since they had met, Thursday realized, he had never seen him look truly at ease, truly happy. 

Feeling maudlin, Thursday reached out and shook Morse’s shoulder. “Come on, lad, time to get out.”

Morse woke slowly, taking a deep breath and rolling his head before sitting up. It was a surprisingly heart-warming moment, Morse for once soft and pliant. “Hm?”

“We’re here. At home. Let’s get you out.” He came around the far side of the Jag and opened Morse’s door. Morse unfolded himself gradually, keeping most of his weight off his right side. He let Thursday pull his arm over the DI’s shoulder without protest, and walked up the pavement with him. About halfway there he stopped, looking around with a frown.

“Where is this?” he asked, confused.

“My house,” answered Thursday, slowly. 

“You said we were going home,” protested Morse.

“Yes, Morse. My home. Yours is an ice box up three flights of stairs. Come along; you’ll feel better inside.”

Morse didn’t put up a fight, but he did dawdle as they finished the walk up the pavement, clearly uncertain about this turn of events. 

Thursday unlocked the front door and let them into the warmth of the house; it was rarely this warm in the winter, clearly Win had turned up the heating in preparation. 

Thursday hung up their coats as Win came down the stairs, her clothes covered over with an apron and a duster in her hand. “Oh, Fred, you’re home. And Morse – so good to see you.” She came over to give Fred a hug and, to Morse’s clear surprise, gave him one as well. “I was so sorry to hear about your father,” she said, voice low. Morse bobbed his head silently, mouth opening once and then closing soundlessly. 

“Come on through to the den,” said Thursday, leading Morse through and settling him down on the sofa. “You’d better sleep off that morphine – I’ll run out and fill your prescriptions.”

Morse handed up the paper without complaint, clearly tired and out of sorts. Win brought in a pillow and a blanket for him; Morse took them with a blank expression. 

“Get your head down,” advised Thursday, as Win tiptoed out. 

“Fred?”

“Yes, lad?”

Morse shook his head and turned to place the pillow at the end of the sofa. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

  
***

Thursday picked up Morse’s prescription from the local pharmacy and dropped it off home; Morse was still dozing when he poked his head in to check on him, Win quietly making sandwiches in the dining room.

“Here’s yours,” she said, handing him his usual packet when he stopped in to say goodbye. He tucked it away in his pocket and gave her a peck.

“Keep an eye on him?”

“Of course, love.”


	2. Chapter 2

The afternoon at the office was a slow churn of paperwork. Jakes asked him how his morning had been, Thursday answered nondescriptly, and they moved on. 

The arrest of Vince Kaspar had caused a brief news sensation in both Oxford and London, but after several days the story had been surpassed by others, and Cowley Station was once again out of the papers. Bright had snapped up all the press, of course, but the briefing and reporting caused by the calls had fallen on Thursday’s shoulders; he didn’t miss it. The usual paperwork was quite enough.

At five-thirty he knocked the dottle from his pipe, turned out his light and went home. 

The house was as warm as it had been earlier in the day; the gas bill might beggar them, but thinking of Morse’s dark, frigid flat, Thursday found he didn’t care. He hung up his coat and hat and stepped quietly into the kitchen where Win was mixing dumplings for stew. 

“Hello love. Give this a stir, would you?” she handed him the batter and stepped over to a chopping block to begin slicing up carrots and potatoes. The beef was already simmering on the cooker, steam rising to bead on the wall separating the kitchen from the den. 

“Had a good day?” he asked, stirring the batter until the flour blended into the viscous goop. 

“Morse and I had a nice chat this afternoon. He told me about his degree – poor lad, he ought to’ve had the chance to finish it. That’s why he works with the resource centre now, you know – to make sure other students like him have a chance of completing their studies.”

Thursday frowned down at the batter. “I didn’t know.” 

“He’s awake now; he was reading when I left to get started on supper. Why don’t you go check in on him; here – I’ll take that.” She reached out for the now-mixed batter and Thursday handed it over. 

“Thanks pet.” He left Win in the kitchen and padded out to the hall. The door to the den was closed; he rapped once on it then looked in. “Morse?”

Morse was sitting up on the sofa, his back up against the armrest, his legs drawn up and a knitted blanket spread over them. He held a thick book in his lap, fingers running with surety over the page. They stilled as Fred stepped in, his head rising inquisitively. “Done work?” he asked, putting a scrap of paper between the pages and closing the book. His hands rested on its worn cover, his long fingers hooked over the edges. He had a stiffness to him, a tenseness that spoke of preparedness to bolt. 

“For the day. There’s always more to do. You seem to have settled in.”

“Mrs Thursday has been very kind. I wish I could do more in return.” His mouth curved fretfully, fingers tapping against the edge of the book.

“Nonsense; you’re here to rest up. You heard the doctor – you’re on bedrest. You don’t want to exacerbate that wound.”

“I could easily wash some dishes without causing myself lasting injury,” replied Morse. 

“Morse, you’re here to recuperate and in this house that means putting up with being mothered; that’s the short and the long of it.” Thursday took a seat at the end of the sofa beside Morse’s blanketed feet, propping his own up on the coffee table. 

“I’m not used to being looked after,” began Morse, uncertainly.

“I know, lad. That’s why we brought you home. After all you’ve been through, you need a few days’ rest and feeding up.”

There was a moment of silence which Thursday took for capitulation. “What’re you reading?” he asked, looking down to the book in Morse’s lap, eager to turn to a new subject before Morse settled into a stubborn groove. 

“Don Quixote,” answered Morse after a minute. “It’s what I was reading before this all began – it seems like months ago.” Before Thursday had heard of the Kaspar’s intrusion into Oxford, before Morse’s father had been taken ill. “It keeps my mind off things,” continued Morse; his mouth twitched into an uneven smile. 

“How’s your family holding up?” asked Thursday. 

Morse’s fingers tightened on the edge of the book, his shoulders rising slightly, defensively. Like a dog raising his hackles, Thursday thought. “They’re alright. My father’s death was a long time coming,” he said after a moment, shifting his position on the sofa. “My step-mother is a hard, unforgiving person. She made a family with my father and she stood by him, but I don’t think there was much love lost in the past few years. It’s my half-sister I feel sorry for. She’s bright and kind, and doesn’t deserve to be cooped up there in the middle of nowhere to rot away. I’ve been trying to convince her to come down south for the past few years; perhaps now she will.”

“That would be nice for you,” said Thursday. Morse nodded slowly. 

“It would,” he agreed, sounding almost surprised by the thought. 

Just as Thursday was considering how to suggest to Morse that he might pay more attention to his own wants and needs, Win bustled in with a glass of water and a couple of bottles in her hand. “Time for your medicine, Morse.”

Thursday stood and let her by. “I’ll go get out of this suit. Back in a minute.”

He was walking down the hall to the stairs when the front door flew open, narrowly missing striking his shoulder, to clatter into the hall stand. Sam stood in the doorway, cheeks pink from the cold. 

“What’ve I told you about slamming that door?” asked Thursday.

“Sorry Pop.” Sam barely looked chagrined, but he did run a rueful hand through his hair. “Is Morse here?”

“He’s in the den. Don’t tire him out,” instructed Thursday when Sam brushed past him down the hall. The DI continued on upstairs and slipped out of his suit jacket and tie, digging a grey wool pullover out of the wardrobe and donning it. 

Back downstairs he heard the sound of lively chatter coming from the den; he poked his head in to see Sam sitting beside Morse on the sofa, Morse’s book open in his hands. He was running his fingers over the raised dots and questioning Morse fluidly about it. 

Thursday shook his head and went to find himself something to drink.

  
***

Dinner passed by quicker than Thursday had expected, with Sam quizzing Morse about his English homework and snapping back at Joan’s needling comments, Joan attempting to sidestep the fact that she’d been asked out by a customer at work (“I turned him down; he’s a total drip.”), and Win continuing to ladle out more stew until they all sat fat and full around the table.

“It was excellent, thank you,” said Morse, when Win rose to clear his plate away. He at least didn’t try to insist on taking it, settled in at the far end of the table. Over the past hour he had mellowed somewhat, his deer-in-headlights look replaced by something coming close to relaxed. Although Thursday did still notice him stiffening at sudden noises – Sam dropping his fork, Win putting the plates down in the kitchen with a clatter. 

“How do you feel about some telly tonight, Morse? Or the radio? Or if you’d rather just rest, we can clear out and leave you be,” proposed Thursday, handing his own plate to Joan, who had risen to help her mother. 

“Whichever you prefer.”

“Top of the Pops is on tonight,” broke in Sam, eagerly. Thursday gave him a repressive look, but Morse smiled.

“That settles it, then.”

Thursday doubted Morse had ever listened to the telly, far less a program on pop music, but his willingness to please Sam warmed his heart. He rose to help Win with the dishes, leaving Sam to take Morse through to the den.

  
***

Thursday returned to the den after the chores were done and watched telly with Sam while Morse listened with his head back against the sofa cushion. They sat together until it was time for Sam to do his homework and Morse’s breaths were growing deep and sleepy. It was hardly nine, but looking at him Thursday considered that between the pain, the exhaustion and the pain killers, it was only natural that he was done in.

“I’ll let you settle in.” Thursday rose and Morse blinked, trying to pull himself back to alertness. He sat up, blanket slipping off his knee.

“It’s alright. You don’t have to go.”

“Nonsense. Time you got your head down. The more you rest up, the quicker you’ll be back on your feet.”

Morse made a mild noise of agreement, running a hand through his hair and mussing it up, giving him the look of a recently-hatched nestling. Thursday leant over to pick up the suitcase he’d put down behind the sofa. 

“I packed a set of pyjamas for you, and your toothbrush. I’ll dig ‘em out.”

  
***

With Morse settled in for the night Thursday retired upstairs, finding Win already settled in bed with her book, a hot water bottle nestled up beside her. She had turned up the heating in the downstairs but not the second floor, he realised; with the heat rising in the house it was still warmer than the usual winter chill, but outside there was frost on the ground and the cold air was leeching the heat out the draughty windows.

“Everything alright?” she asked, looking up from her book.

“All shipshape. Got the lad settled in for the night; fetched him some water and made sure he knew where the downstairs lav is. He should do ‘til morning.”

“You were right to bring him over. I can see the hurt in him – I don’t know if it’s his father’s death, or his leg, or both, but…” Win shook her head. “He needs caring for.”

Thursday nodded in agreement, thinking of Morse’s stiffness earlier in the evening. “He’s come to the right place for that.”

  
***

Thursday rose early the next morning, wanting to be up when Morse woke. He helped Win with breakfast, setting out the plates and glasses quietly while she cooked eggs and toasted bread for soldiers.

Morse came out of his own accord before the children came downstairs, pushing out into the hall and standing awkwardly by the door, waiting to be spotted. 

Thursday was privately dismayed at the look of him. The circles under his eyes were if anything darker than they had been the day before, his face drawn and pale. He looked as though he’d hardly slept, as though his night had been spent tossing and turning on the narrow sofa. 

“Morse,” he said softly, watching the lad turn towards him. “How’d you sleep?”

Morse shrugged. “Not so well. Probably just stress,” he said dismissively. 

“You could have a doze this afternoon,” suggested Thursday. “Come have breakfast.” He ushered Morse through to the dining room and went to load a plate for him.

  
***

By the time he left for work Morse seemed more or less his usual self, quiet and polite but willing to be drawn into Joan and Sam’s banter. Thursday promised to be home early if possible and left, giving Win a peck as he took his sandwiches from her on the doorstep.

At work, the time ticked by slowly. Thursday pushed papers around, went out to interview two people peripherally involved in the ballooning Kaspar case, and ate lunch alone at his desk. After lunch there was a meeting with Bright and the Vice squad, then a briefing for the CID detectives, and finally more paperwork. 

Acting-DC Strange stopped by towards the end of the day, bobbing his head respectfully at Thursday as he stepped in. “Just wondering how Mr Morse is doing, sir. I understand he’s back in Oxford now.”

“He’s on the road to recovery, Strange, but he has a ways to go yet. I’ll let him know you asked after him.”

Strange gave a regretful shake of his head. “It was him that broke open the Kaspar case. He deserves the credit there.” Plainly, Thursday wasn’t the only one who had appreciated Morse’s work. As was only fair – Strange had received a temporary promotion to DC on the strength of his thinking to look at the articles of association for Landesman’s company – advice which had come from Morse.

“You’re the one who listened to him. Many with equal opportunity wouldn’t have taken his word for it.”

“It just takes one look at him to know he’s got brains, sir. And, what’s more, sense.”

“Indeed,” agreed Thursday. “I’ll pass that on to him.”

  
***

Thursday stopped in the post office on the way home to pick up a box of chocs; it was a monthly treat for the family, and with Morse’s obvious penny-pinching he doubted the young man often indulged.

At home Win and Joan were chatting in the kitchen, while in the dining room Thursday could hear the sound of a cheerful symphony coming from the radio. He took off his coat and hat, smiling across the hall at Win when she turned to greet him, and stepped into the dining room.

Morse was sitting in the chair on the far side of the table beside the radio, back upright and head held high. It whipped around at the sound of Thursday coming in, his fingers tensing on the chair arm.

“It’s me,” said the DI, putting the box of chocolates down on the table. “What’s this?”

Morse reached out and turned down the radio. “The Lieutenant Kije Suite. What’s that?” he asked, nodding at the table.

“Brought some chocs home. Thought you might fancy them. I often pick them up, and they were discounted on account of Christmas,” he added, fearing to send Morse into a huff with too much solicitousness. “I was going to pop next door and see if the news is on; the Kaspar case is going to arraignment and there might be something about it.”

Morse switched off the radio and rose. “I’ll come. I can make my own way,” he added pointedly, when Thursday began coming around the table. 

Thursday backed off into the hall and Morse came around the table and out the doorway without difficulty. Just as he was stepping into the hall the front door slammed open without warning, doorknob catching him full-on in the right hip. Morse gave a pained cry and tumbled backwards, Thursday instinctively lunging to catch him as he hit the hall table and lost his balance, toppling down. 

They ended up in a crooked pile on the floor, Thursday on his knees with Morse in front of him, long legs spread out on the floor, his arm pressed tight over his side. Thursday had caught his shoulders tight against himself and could hear Morse hyperventilating, pained and panicked. He was shaking, pressed up tight against Thursday as though the DI were the one source of stability in his world. 

“Morse?” Sam’s voice was tiny in the suddenly-silent hallway; Thursday could just make out his silhouette in the doorway. Then Win and Joan were running down the hall, Thursday picking himself up and helping Morse into a more stable position. Morse was still tucked up against him, his free hand now latched on tightly to Thursday’s sleeve as though it were a lifeline. 

“You’re alright, Morse. You’re alright. The door caught your bad hip is all. Come on; I’ll take a look at your stitches. Up you come.” He helped Morse to his feet, keeping a tight hold on the lad, and helped him limp slowly down the hall, Morse’s breathing rough. Win and Joan tagged along; Sam hung back, looking utterly wretched. 

“Lie down there and get your trousers off,” instructed Thursday, helping Morse down onto the sofa and closing the door to the den to give them some privacy. Morse undid his trousers and pulled them down and Thursday tugged his shorts down over the bony angle of his hip to reveal the top of his leg and the white corner of the gauze pad. He peeled it back to show the line of black stitches in pale skin. There was a touch of redness, but otherwise no sign of bleeding or burst stitches. “Looks fine, Morse. There will probably be bruising tomorrow; I can check it then.”

Morse nodded shakily, hands trembling as they pulled his trousers back on. 

“You alright?” asked Thursday, when he had done. 

In truth, Morse looked pretty far from alright. His face was white, eyes still wide with fright, his shoulders curved inwards defensively. His usual quiet confidence had vanished without a trace, torn away from him by the shock or the pain or both. His breathing had slowed, but it was obvious he was consciously working at trying to calm himself. 

“It just… caught me off guard,” he said at last, slowly, rubbing gently at his hip. 

“Would you like a little time on your own?” offered Thursday.

He shook his head. “I’m alright. It was just a little fright.”

“You don’t have to be invincible, Morse.”

Morse’s mouth twitched upwards. “I would never claim to be that.”

“Alright. You stay here; I’ll settle the family.” He rose and stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind him. Win and Joan had retreated into the kitchen; Sam was sitting alone on the stairs. 

“Is he alright?” asked Joan sharply, turning at Thursday’s exit. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam’s head shoot up.

“He’s fine; just took a little tumble. Don’t start hovering; give him some space. You might fetch him something to drink,” he suggested. Joan nodded and hustled into the den; Thursday could hear her voice and Morse’s lower answers. She sounded her usual self, calm and matter-of-fact instead of soft and cautious; relieved, Thursday turned to Sam, who was now staring resolutely at the hall table. 

“That was a right cock-up and no mistake,” started Thursday; Sam flinched, head drooping. “But he’ll get over it, and so will you. No need to look so frightened. He’s stronger than he looks.”

“He could’ve been hurt,” said Sam, voice low and apprehensive.

“He could have, but he wasn’t. There’s no good to be had from dwelling on what ifs. Go in and apologize to him, learn a lesson, and move on. Go on,” chivvied Thursday, until Sam stood and dragged himself down the hall. Win raised her eyebrows at him, but the both of them gathered to listen to the conversation in the den. 

“Morse? I’m – I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so careless; Dad’s always telling me off for it.”

“That’s alright. It was an accident. No harm done.”

“Morse…”

“Really. Come and sit down and tell me what we’re watching tonight.”

“If you’re sure…” there was a pause and a creak from the armchair. “Z-Cars is on tonight. Pop doesn’t like us watching it, says it’s all bunk, but maybe he’ll make an exception…” he continued on, prattling about the police programme. 

Thursday gave Win a wry smile, she returned it, and they stepped into the kitchen to get working on dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: things get worse before they get better.


	3. Chapter 3

The children were overly-garrulous at supper, doubtless trying to put Morse’s accident behind them, while Morse was polite but distracted. He responded to direct questions readily enough but didn’t come out of his shell of his own accord. His offer to help with the plates afterwards was firmly rebuffed, Win and Joan clearing up as usual. 

Morse stayed put after supper was cleared away and the family had risen, Sam and Joan trickling out to do the cleaning up. “I thought I would listen to the radio for a while, if that’s alright,” he said, head canted upwards towards Thursday.

Thursday nodded. “Of course. Care for some company?”

“Only if you’d like.” His face was neutral, difficult to read, blue eyes staring steadily at the far wall. His hands, resting on the table, were half-tensed. 

“Do me some good, I expect; not much proper culture to be found around here between Joan’s popstars and Sam’s police programmes.”

A light smile graced Morse’s lips; he moved over to sit in the chair nearest the radio and, with startling precision, reached out and switched it on.

  
***

They listened to the news – Morse flicked stations when sport came on – and then to a recording of a Verdi opera recently staged in London: Il Trovatore. Thursday smoked his pipe through the performance, treating it as more of an opportunity to test his Italian than an experience to be enjoyed. Some of the music was beautiful, but much of it was boring and melodramatic, the plot anxious and overblown. He was pleased with it all the same for Morse’s sake; the lad listened to it intently, face a mask of concentration mixed with enjoyment.

When Il Trovatore had finished they moved into the den, recently vacated by Sam. Thursday turned the telly on for some background noise while Morse settled himself on the sofa, still careful of his hip. 

“How’re you doing, lad?” asked Thursday. Morse looked up, expression hesitant.

“I’m alright,” he temporized. “Fine, really, in light of everything.”

“There’s nothing wrong with grieving,” said Thursday kindly. 

Morse blinked, surprise flashing across his face. “No,” he agreed, slowly. “I know. It’s just… after everything that happened…” he shook his head. “I just need a little more time.”

“You have as much as you need, Morse. You’re welcome here for as long as need be – until you’re whole and healthy again.” The word whole stuck in his mind; Morse looked very far from it, fracture lines showing clearly through his stoic façade. 

Morse opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Thank you,” he said at last, plainly. Whatever it was he had intended to say went unsaid. He rubbed at his hip again, the motion attracting Thursday’s attention.

“Taken your pills recently?” asked Thursday. Morse nodded, fingers running thoughtfully over the knitted blanket.

“Before supper.”

“How’s the pain?”

“It’s fine. My leg’s just a bit sore.”

Thursday rose. “I’ll fetch you a hot water bottle.”

  
***

Morse settled down for the night not long after Thursday returned with the hot water bottle. Thursday was surprised to find it after ten already; the opera had run longer than he’d thought.

Win was in bed reading when he went up, but she put her book down when he came in. “You’ve been a long time,” she said, snugging down under the blankets and out of the chilled air leeching in through the window.

“Lost track of time.”

“How’s Morse?”

“He enjoyed the opera, but…” Thursday shrugged. “He seems distant. Whatever’s wrong with him, he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“Maybe he just needs more time.”

“We’ll be waiting ‘til we’re old and grey in that case; he’s stubborn as they come, for all he seems mild as milk at first glance.”

Win smiled. “He’ll open up when he’s ready, Fred. Give him time.”

  
***

Thursday wasn’t sure what woke him, but he came awake knowing something was wrong. He listened for a moment and heard footsteps downstairs, then the opening and closing of the front door. His first thought was: _burglars_. His second was: _Morse_.

He rose quietly and put on his slippers and housecoat in the dark, moving with the ease of long practice; it wasn’t unusual for DIs to be pulled from their bed in the middle of the night. 

The house was dark and silent when he stepped out onto the upstairs landing; neither of the children had woken. Thursday padded downstairs and turned on the porch light before opening the door and stepping out.

It was frigid outside, the air cold and sharp as a razor on his cheeks. He could see his breath in the light from the overhead lamp and feel the touch of frost on his skin. The sky above was dark, no stars peeking through the heavy clouds. 

Morse was standing in the centre of the path to the road in just his pyjamas and bare feet, arms wrapped tightly around himself, his back to the house. His shoulders were rising and falling rapidly, the sound of his breathing audible in the silent street. 

“Morse?” asked Thursday quietly, closing the door behind him. Morse startled as though shot, spinning around with his arms held out in front of him to ward off danger. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, his face tight with fear. His hair was damp with sweat; it beaded at his hair line and trickled down to catch in his eyebrows. “It’s just me, Morse. It’s just me.”

Morse stepped backwards and faltered; Thursday surged forward and caught his arm. Morse whipped away, chest heaving. He was shaking – not with cold, Thursday thought, but with adrenaline. His skin was flushed, face and throat lobster-red. 

“Morse,” breathed Thursday, shocked. 

It wasn’t the first time he had seen a man go to pieces. On the long, hard road through North Africa and up into Italy, plenty of men had cracked. The lucky ones had been sent home, or at relieved from duty on the front lines. The unlucky had been expected to keep going, coping with cross-fire and shelling and mortars as well as their own inner demons. Few of them had made it home in one piece. 

“It’s just me, lad. It’s just me,” he said, low and gentle as though speaking to a spooked horse, hands reaching out but not touching Morse. After a moment Morse reached out of his own accord, seeking Thursday’s arm. He latched on tightly and pulled himself closer, hands gripping Thursday’s housecoat tightly. 

“Couldn’t breathe,” he muttered. 

“You’re having an attack, Morse. It’ll pass – you’ll be fine.” Speaking calmly he started leading Morse back towards the house. Morse took a few hesitant steps, then shuddered and pulled away.

“I won’t go back. Can’t go back.” He shook his head sharply. “I can’t breathe in there.” 

“Alright,” said Thursday smoothly. “Let’s just sit down here. Come on, let’s have a seat.” He sat Morse down on the front stoop, rubbing his back until his laboured breathing began to clear. “You’re alright Morse. Just keep breathing. That’s right. In and out. In and out.” He doubted Morse was listening to his words, but the tone of his voice was smooth and soothing, and Morse seemed to be calming. His hands remained tightly latched in Thursday’s housecoat, clamped on as though it were a matter of life or death. 

“I can’t see,” he said at last, voice dry and rough and afraid. “Every day – day in and out – _it’s just black._ ” His jaw was tense, eyes wild and darting.

“I know, lad,” said Thursday, softly. “I’m sorry.”

He turned away, finally releasing Thursday’s housecoat, to pull his hands through his tangled hair, throwing his head back. “I’ve tried _so hard_. All these years. Black on black. Fighting back the fear, the rage. Now… _I’m afraid_. Every sound, every shock, every nightmare…” He shuddered. “I can’t forget it. What happened. Mrs Coke-Norris. The gunshot. I can’t stop thinking about it, dreaming about it. _I need it to stop._ ” The words spilled out of him, fast and frantic.

Thursday put an arm around Morse’s shoulders, lightly at first, and then more heavily when Morse didn’t move to pull away. “You’ll be alright, Morse. All these – the nightmares, the shock – it’s only natural. And it will go in time, so long as you take care of yourself. Don’t bury it away – that does no good to anyone. 

Morse shivered. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”

Thursday looked over at him. The sweat on his forehead had dried, the redness faded to leave his skin pale and patchy. He was beginning to shiver in earnest, out in the freezing night with bare feet and just his pyjamas. 

“It will pass, Morse. I promise. For now, I think we’d better get back inside. Alright?”

Morse nodded stiffly. Thursday helped him to his feet and ushered him inside, flipping off the porch light and closing the front door after them.

  
***

“Do you want a cuppa?” suggested Thursday as he settled Morse back into the den, Morse sitting straight-backed and cross-legged on the sofa with his feet tucked up under him. Thursday draped the blanket over Morse’s thin shoulders, colourful wool falling in folds around him. “You should have something to warm you up.” In this light he could see the beds of Morse’s nails were blue, his hands white.

“No. Thank you.” 

Thursday closed the door to the den and took a seat on the sofa beside Morse. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Morse shrugged stiffly, crossing his arms. “What’s there to say? I’m afraid of the dark.” He gave a quiet, disgusted snort. 

“It’s not you, Morse. It’s the shooting that’s got into your head. That’s perfectly natural – it would be odd if you _weren’t_ changed by it.”

Morse pursed his lips. “I can hardly sleep. When I do, I have nightmares and then… waking doesn’t feel any different from the dreams. Worse, if anything; I still see in my dreams.” 

“How long have the nightmares been going on?”

“Since the night after my father died. I didn’t get much sleep at home.”

Which explained, at least, his haggard appearance on the train platform. Thursday sighed. 

“I’m sorry, lad.”

Morse shook his head, shoulders slumping. “Don’t be. There’s nothing you could have done.”

Thursday considered the young man sitting beside him on the sofa. Morse looked fragile and washed out, as though all the colour and life had been bled from him. As though he were falling to pieces right here in front of Thursday. “We could have talked about it. It helps – more than you might think. I’ve seen men broken by what they’ve seen, by what’s been inflicted on them. Sometimes the only thing you can do to help is to talk.”

“I’ve never been much of a talker,” said Morse, quietly. 

“When you speak, you speak from the heart. That’s enough.” He laid a light hand on Morse’s shoulder. “We’ll get you through this, Morse. Promise.”

  
***

He stayed up with Morse a further half hour, chatting occasionally about Morse’s fears but mostly about nothing in particular – their work, the war, Lonsdale, the speed with which the world was changing. He only ducked out when Morse seemed at last to be growing tired, the space between his replies lengthening and his head nodding.

Thursday crept upstairs to bed, completely done-in, and shrugged out of his housecoat and slippers to crawl back between the covers. He lay down beside Win’s warm form and closed his eyes.

Only a few hours ‘til dawn.

  
***

Thursday rose the next morning to find that it had snowed, a light dusting about two inches deep. He showered and dressed, knotting his tie as he went downstairs. Win was already up and making breakfast, Sam and Joan in the dining room chattering quietly. Morse was conspicuously absent, the door to the den closed.

Thursday paused at the door, considering whether to knock. In the end he did, deciding to risk waking Morse in order to check up on him.

“Come in.”

Thursday opened the door to find Morse standing by the back window with his hand on the glass; it was propped open. He had changed out of his pyjamas and stood in his stocking feet, wearing flannel trousers and a deep blue jumper. He turned his head at the sound of the door opening and closed the window. 

Morse looked better than he had yesterday morning. His face was still worn, but there was a hint of colour to it, a straightness to his back that spoke of resilience. 

“How’re you doing this morning?”

Morse reached up to run a hand gently through his hair, pulling the thick locks back from his face. “Better. A little better,” he answered quietly. “Has it snowed?”

Thursday blinked. “How did you know?”

Morse smiled shyly. “There’s a quietness to the world – nothing quite matches it.”

“That there is,” replied Thursday, who had noticed the same himself on occasion. “And, in my line of work, it shows footprints up a treat. Fancy some breakfast?”

“Alright.”

  
***

DS Jakes came by twenty minutes later when Thursday was just finishing up his toast; Win let him in and he drifted into the dining room to take in the picture of controlled chaos. Joan and Sam were bickering over a dirty dish towel, Morse calmly peeling a hard-boiled egg surrounded by the carnage of two previous eggs, while Thursday tried to finish his coffee and scold the children at the same time.

“Morning, sir,” said Jakes; Thursday saw Morse’s head rise, but there was no apparent fear in the action.

“Morning, sergeant.” He stood, swallowing the last of his coffee and putting the cup down. “Morse, you set for the day?”

Morse nodded, pausing in his careful deconstruction of the eggshell. He looked calm and composed. 

“Then I’ll see you tonight. Sam, mind you take care of the bins.” And with that he stepped out, followed by Jakes.

  
***

Bright was chipper from the positive press the night before around the arraignment; he came in twice to check up on the court details with Thursday. Otherwise the day passed by without incident, Thursday spending much of it indoors in front of his radiator. It blasted heat like a furnace, whistling and clanking to itself. Outside, a light flurry of snow drifted down.

Thursday spent the afternoon trying to think of something to help take Morse out of himself. His thoughts circled round haphazardly, discarding every idea almost immediately. 

The one thing that stuck in his mind was the intent enjoyment with which Morse had listened to the radio while Il Trovatore played. It was the first time since bringing Morse home that he had seen the lad so engaged in the world around him, and so happy. 

That night on the way home, he had Jakes stop off at Morse’s flat. After all, he still had the key.

  
***

Thursday arrived home with a stack of records in his arms. The kitchen was empty, light off. He glanced at the hall stand and saw both Win and Morse’s coats there; both the children’s were missing. “Win? Morse?”

“In here, love,” called Win, from the den. He shrugged out of his coat and hung up his hat, then walked down the hall. 

In the warmth of the cozy room Win and Morse were sitting together on the sofa, Morse with a skein of blue wool hooked over his hands; Win was unwinding it into a ball. Win looked up at his entrance and smiled at the sight of the LPs. 

“Had a good day, you two?” he asked, setting his burden down beside the turntable. Win and Morse made sounds of agreement. “I see the missus’s got you hard at work, Morse.”

Morse smiled. “It seems I’m good for something,” he said. 

“Morse has been helping out all day.”

“Keep this up and you’ll put me and the kids to shame,” joked Thursday. “By the by, I brought you something…”

“Records,” said Morse, immediately. Thursday blinked.

“How’d you know that?”

“It was a guess, but you put something heavy down beside the turntable, something made up of a number of items. Anything else, you’d have put down on the chair, or the dining room table.”

“You make a fine detective, Morse.”

“Deduction can’t tell me what they are, though,” said Morse with a smile.

“I stopped by your flat. Picked up some of your operas. Thought we could have another on tonight if you’re keen.”

Morse shook his head gently. “You don’t have to. I know they’re probably not your cup of tea.”

“Nonsense. I’d like to.” He stepped over to the pile and flicked through it. “Now, then. What should we have?”


End file.
